


People vs. G. Jenkins

by Jenksel



Category: Night Court, The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Multi, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenksel/pseuds/Jenksel
Summary: Ready or not, Jenkins is about to reap what he sowed forty years ago.  (My theory on one of the reasons why Jenkins ended up in Oregon)





	People vs. G. Jenkins

April 2, 1986  
Manhattan, NY

The tall, fierce-looking bailiff lumbered across the dingy, time-worn courtroom to stand next to the doorway, the wall-mounted fixtures making it appear as though he had some sort of pagan-looking headdress on his shaven head. He cleared his throat and made the announcement in a sing-song tone:

“All rise! Manhattan Criminal Court, Part Two, is now in session; the Honorable Judge Harold T. Stone presiding.”

A young man with a boyish face and thick, sandy-colored hair, wearing the black silk robes of a magistrate, bounded energetically from the doorway up onto the judge’s bench. Before taking his seat he flashed the motley assemblage of court watchers, defendants and plaintiffs a wide, bright grin as they all settled into their seats.

“Good evening, ladies and gentleman, and welcome to Harry’s Judicial Warehouse, conveniently located in Lower Manhattan and open late to serve all of your litigation needs!” He snatched up the gavel and rapped it sharply on the bench, calling the court officially into session. 

“OK, Mac ‘n Cheese, what’s number one on Manhattan’s Top 40 countdown this evening?”

As Judge Stone made himself comfortable, the court clerk, a tall black man wearing an eye-catching bright purple sweater vest, stepped onto the bench carrying an open file folder in his hand.

“Another cover of an oldie but a goodie, sir,” he replied, going along with his judge’s joking banter as he handed over the arrest file. “People versus G. Jenkins; breaking and entering and petty larceny.”

As the prosecuting and defense attorneys approached the bench with their own copies of the case, the tall bailiff who had called the court into session led the accused, a nattily-dressed, elderly-looking man with glasses who was nearly as tall as the bailiff, from the jury box where he had been impatiently waiting and stood him before the judge, the lawyers standing on either side of him. The old man was careful to position himself so that he was slightly behind the two lawyers, and therefore out of their peripheral vision. He wanted to make himself as inconspicuous as possible to everyone in this room.

“Good evening, Mr. Jenkins!” the judge chirped. “What’s the “G” stand for?”

The defendant, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected question, kept his head down, and mumbled his reply. “With all due respect, I’d rather not say, Your Honor.”

Judge Stone would not be put off, though.

“I’m afraid I’m gonna have to insist, Mr. Jenkins. The court needs your full name, please, otherwise I’m gonna have to find you in contempt…” he let the threat trail off. Mr. Jenkins sighed quietly and relented. Anything to get out of here as quickly as possible.

“It stands for “Galahad”, Your Honor,” he said, still staring at the floor.

“Galahad?!” the young man crowed. “Hey, that’s a neat name! How’d you get a name like that?” 

“Your Honor,” interrupted the Assistant District Attorney, yet another tall man, this one with black hair and immaculately dressed in a dark blue, tailored suit of virgin wool. “As fascinating a story as I’m sure that might be, the good People of New York simply don’t give a flying rat’s bee-hind, especially considering the size of our case load this evening…?” His tone was caustic and impatient.

“Awwww,” Stone pouted melodramatically. “You never let me have any fun!”

“I drew the short straw, Your Honor; I’m the designated grown-up for tonight,” the lawyer shot back, deadpan.

“Point taken, Mr. Prosecutor,” Judge Stone sighed. “What’s the story here, then?”

The prosecutor glanced at the file in his hand as he spoke briskly. “Well, Your Honor, it seems that Sir Galahad of Crime-a-lot, here, was caught breaking OUT of a bookstore on Pearl Street after it had closed for the night. He was caught red-handed with a book on his person that had obviously come from the bookstore in question, and he was unable to produce any proof of purchase for said book.”

“Breaking OUT of a store?” the judge questioned, as he looked at the defendant before him. “This must be your first time out as a criminal, huh, Mr. Jenkins? Breaking OUT instead of breaking IN?” The judge turned and looked knowledgeably at his clerk. “Classic rookie mistake.” 

Mac, knowing that any resistance was futile, simply went along with his boss. “OH, yes, sir,” he said in a faux-enthusiastic tone. “Anybody lookin’ at him can tell right off he’s green as grass.”

“Defense, Miss Sullivan?” Judge Stone turned his attention to the petite blonde woman acting as Jenkins’s defense lawyer.

“Sir, my client is simply the victim of a misunderstanding,” she began earnestly. “Mr. Jenkins is the owner of the book. He took it to the bookshop to have it appraised for possible sale. After concluding his business with the owner, Mr. Richards, he began browsing the shelves of the shop, became absorbed in reading, lost track of the time, and was accidentally locked in after closing. When he realized what had happened, he merely did what anyone would do is such a situation, and tried to leave the shop.”

“Yes, Your Honor, any normal person would hurl a copy of the Unabridged Oxford English Dictionary through a back-alley window and sneak down a fire escape, rather than simply pick up the telephone and call for help,” the prosecutor chimed in sarcastically. “Your Honor, the defendant was clearly trying to steal the book and the People demand that he be held accountable for his actions.”

Jenkins winced inside as his lawyer continued her defense. He had flat-out lied to Miss Sullivan. Well, partly lied. He HAD been locked in after closing, but he planned it that way. The book, known as “The Baleful Tome”, was one of incredible power for summoning various types of demonic spirits into this plane of existence; it had been stolen from a private collector months earlier. Jenkins had finally tracked it down to this bookshop, the owner of which was little more than a high-class fence for magical items. Jenkins had no qualms about stealing from thieves, especially where dangerous items of magic that could evaporate the very fabric of Space and Time were concerned. Still, he hated to lie, even for a good reason. It went against the knight’s code of conduct. But then, he had done a lot of things over the last few centuries that violated that code. Proof positive of that was standing right next to Jenkins at this very moment, much to his chagrin and alarm, in the form of Assistant District Attorney Daniel R. Fielding.

The minute the Caretaker of the Metropolitan Public Library laid eyes on the tall, handsome young man with dark eyes and a shock of thick, black hair just beginning to turn gray, Jenkins knew in his heart of hearts that this was his son. His illegitimate son. _The sins of the father, _he thought wryly.__

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Jenkins first caught sight of him as he was waiting in the jury box for court to start. He felt his mouth involuntarily fall open in shock, and he had to consciously force himself to look away before the attorney noticed. After recovering his equilibrium, Jenkins asked the bailiff—whose name was Bull, he later learned—some discreet questions about the ADA. Jenkins quickly discovered that while Bull was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, he was a veritable font of information. He learned that Fielding was born and raised in Louisiana, that his real family name was Elmore, and his parents’ names were Robert and Mucette. Jenkins then knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was indeed his offspring, the result of a boisterous Mardi Gras weekend in New Orleans just after the end of World War II. 

The young judge’s voice brought Jenkins back to the present.

“Mr. Fielding, is the shop owner here to give his testimony before the court?”

“No, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said sourly. “Mr. Richards was arrested earlier this evening for fencing stolen items out of his shop; he is currently cooling his heels in the Brooklyn lock-up, as I understand it.”

“I see. Is there any inventory or anything that would prove that the book is the property of the shop and not of Mr. Jenkins, here?”

“No, sir.”

“Well,” said Judge Stone breezily, “it sounds like a ‘he said, he said’ kind of case, and in a case like that, and seeing how Mr. Richards is not exactly of a sterling character himself, I’m gonna have to come down on the side of Mr. Jenkins on this one. Though I AM going to have ask you to pay restitution for the damages you caused, Mr. Jenkins. One hundred dollars. ” The judge gaveled the case closed. 

“What’s next, Mac?” he asked.

Jenkins turned to Miss Sullivan. “Is that it? Am I free to go now?”

“Free as a bird, Mr. Jenkins,” she confirmed. “Just pay your fine downstairs at the clerk’s office on your way out.”

“Thank you for your help, Miss Sullivan. And I may take the...I mean, MY book with me?” he asked, his voice betraying a trace of anxiety.

“Oh, of course! Dan,” she called to the prosecutor. “Would you give Mr. Jenkins back his book, please?”

“Yeah, sure, here you go, pal,” Dan said distractedly as he picked up the book and held it out for Jenkins to take while Dan read through the next case file.

As the elderly man took the book, he noted that they both had the same strong, long-fingered hands. He stood frozen for a moment as he looked intently at the younger man, an indescribable feeling welling inside of him. Fielding felt the gaze and looked up.

“What?” he snapped in irritation. Suddenly his expression changed to one of puzzlement, then unease, as he got his first good look at the old man.

“I’m sorry—Do I know you?”

Jenkins ducked his head down, cursing himself for being a fool.

“No, no. I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Fielding. Thank you for returning my book.”

Jenkins turned and walked quickly away.

“Sure, you’re welcome.” Fielding responded faintly to the retreating man. “No problem.”

“Mr. Prosecutor, would you like to join us in practicing a little law here?” Judge Stone called from the bench.

“Yeah, coming, sir,” he said. Then, shaking his head in confusion, he turned his full attention to the new case at hand.

 

It took Jenkins some time to find the right office where he was supposed to pay his fine and get the final paperwork in order. It was about an hour later when he was finally able to leave the courthouse, much to his relief. Night had fallen by then. As he exited the building and headed down the massive staircase, he suddenly heard someone calling his name. Turning, his heart sank as he saw Dan Fielding hurrying towards him.

“Mr. Jenkins! I’m glad I was able to catch you,” Fielding said. Jenkins could see that the young man was nervous and unsure. “I think I have something that belongs to you.” He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out something white, and held it out in his hand. Jenkins took the object and looked at it in the dim street lighting, his eyes widening in disbelief. It was a handkerchief, with an embroidered monogram in dark blue. The letter “J”.

Startled, he looked up into Fielding’s searching gaze. He could see by the expression on Fielding’s face that he knew.

“My mother told me about you,” was all he said, his tone carefully neutral.

“I see.” Jenkins couldn’t think of anything else to say.

The younger man chuckled nervously. “Say, listen, uh, if you’re not doing anything right now, could we go someplace, have a cup of coffee and….talk? We’re on a recess right now, I’ve got some time…”

Jenkins’s first impulse was to say “no” and then get as far away from this reminder of a past indiscretion as quickly as possible. But the look in Fielding’s eyes, an odd mixture of desperation and hope, stopped him. The Caretaker thought of his own father in that moment—had Lancelot felt the same way as Jenkins did right now, when he was faced his illegitimate son? If so, he now understood better why Lancelot had more or less abandoned him. But Jenkins also knew how it felt to BE abandoned, and that, in the end, was what led him to accept Fielding’s invitation. The man deserved at least the right to ask some questions of the one who sired him.

As they made their way to a small cafe down the street from the courthouse, Jenkins was again amazed at how much Fielding and he looked and acted alike. Jenkins looked much older, of course, with his wrinkles, heavier build and nearly-white hair. They had the same cynical personality and sarcastic humor. They even had the same type of voice—deep and rich, with an unusually precise enunciation of their words when they spoke. He was surprised that no one else in the courtroom had noticed the similarities, but he was grateful no one had. 

They entered the shop and found a booth off by itself where they could talk privately. Fielding began to order two coffees, but Jenkins interrupted. “I’d prefer a cup of tea, please.”

They sat in awkward silence until the drinks arrived. As Fielding stirred sugar and cream into his cup, he cleared his throat apprehensively, and dived in.

“So!” he began. “You knew my mother?”

Jenkins nodded. “Yes, briefly.”

In the better lighting of the café, Jenkins could see a great deal of Fielding’s mother in him. The same dark, flashing eyes, the same kind, gentle smile. Mucette—such an unusual name. She was a small, pretty young woman with black eyes and hair, a lively, bubbly personality, and a laugh that came easily and lingered. 

Fielding took a sip of his coffee and fidgeted in his seat. Jenkins could tell he was bursting with questions, but was either too nervous or too afraid to ask them. 

“What did your mother tell you about me exactly?” he asked quietly, hoping to put the younger man at ease a little. Fielding leaped at the opening.

“Not a lot. She told me about you just before I went off to law school. She said she never heard from you, or tried to contact you herself. She said she never even knew your full name, just knew you as ‘Jenkins’, and that you were from out east somewhere. She said that it was just a one-time thing, you weren’t dating or anything. Just a one-night stand.” 

Jenkins flinched inwardly at the use of the phrase ‘one-night stand’. It sounded so…cheap, sleazy. He had never thought of it as such, merely as…unwise.

“How did she explain…the pregnancy…to your fath…her husband?” Jenkins blurted. It was the one thing bothering him the most ever since he realized that he had a son. “He didn’t…make things difficult for her, did he?”

“No, he didn’t,” Fielding responded, smiling faintly as he stared into his cup. “Daddy-Bob isn’t that kind of a man. He forgave her, raised me like I was his own. He came back home from the south Pacific not long after you and Mama…. He even told everybody that I was his, just to spare Mama the gossip and the shame.”

Fielding pushed the cup in front of him into the middle of the table as he leaned forward anxiously.

“Can we just stop all of this beating around the bush, Mr. Jenkins? I don’t want anything from you, if that’s what you’re worried about, no money or anything like that. I just want to know what happened. That’s all. I don’t know why it’s so important for me to know, I just know that I HAVE to know the whole story. Mama won’t say any more, and I don’t want to push her. Please,” he asked, a look of longing in his eyes. “What happened?”

Remembering all of the feelings and questions he had himself as a child and as a young man about his own father, Jenkins couldn’t help but feel pity for the younger man. 

“Of course, Mr. Fielding, forgive me. I guess I’m still in a little bit of shock over meeting you so suddenly like this. I’ll answer whatever questions you may have.” And Jenkins began to tell the story that he had never shared with another living soul before now.

 

April 6-7, 1946  
New Orleans, LA

Her husband was still in the South Pacific with the navy; she was in New Orleans that weekend visiting her brother and to go to Mardi Gras. Jenkins was in New Orleans on a short break from his work at the Library. 

The war years had been a dark, trying time for the entire world, including the Library. With so much chaos, dark magic and evil turned loose into the world by the Nazis and their fascination with the occult, the Library and its staff had been worked hard trying to keep it all in check. 

Even Jenkins, who rarely left the Library anymore, had to step up and take on some solo missions. He had seen horrific things on his various trips throughout Europe; just when he thought he had seen every form of depravity and cruelty that Man could inflict on his fellow Man, he was always tragically proven wrong. 

He badly needed some downtime, to just get away from the Library and magic and legendary artifacts. Now that the war was finally over and the Axis defeated, he decided it was safe for him to take some time off. He had never been to Mardi Gras before and, curious as to what the fascination of it was for people, decided this was as good a time as any to go. 

To his surprise he immediately fell in love with the city of New Orleans. He felt very much at home there for some reason. It was the first Mardi Gras after the end of the war, and everyone was in an especially joyous and celebratory mood. Even though rationing was still being enforced in many places, there was plenty of delicious, exotic dishes to be sampled. The music was loud and exhilarating, the parties were raucous and unrestrained, and the liquor flowed freely. The weary Caretaker immersed himself with abandonment in the festivities as deeply as he could. It felt good to be able to forget who you are and be someone completely different, even if only for a few hours.

He met Mucette on one of the many bars not far from the French Quarter. They were both happily drunk and in a light, party mood. She had seen him first, and introduced herself to the tall, handsome (if much older-looking) gentleman. Jenkins was smitten by the pretty, petite French-Creole girl with the tinkling laugh and sparkling eyes. She asked him to dance, which he tried to beg off of, but she insisted, pulling him onto the packed dance floor as the band started up a new zydeco tune. 

Jenkins wasn’t much of a dancer, but she only laughed good-naturedly at his clumsy missteps as she tried to teach him a simple two-step. Her joy was infectious, and soon she had the normally staid and reserved Caretaker laughing and singing in Creole French along with her. The freely-flowing booze certainly helped things long. 

They danced until it became too hot and stifling in the bar. They went outside and took a walk together in the cool, early-spring night air. They joined a parade crowd along the way, laughing and racing each other to collect the various beads and doubloons tossed from the floats. They started again in the street, stepping lively at first with the boisterous music, then moving more slowly together and holding one another more closely. At one point Mucette pulled Jenkins’s head down and she kissed him, lightly as first, then deeply and passionately. Without a seconds’ hesitation, Jenkins responded in kind. And, as they say, one thing lead to another. 

They found a comparatively small, quiet park off of the main drag and Jenkins soon had her on the cool grass beneath a stand of blooming magnolia trees, hungrily kissing her exquisite, half-naked body all over, greedily sucking on her nipples hardened by the night air and her desire for him. With her legs wrapped around his waist and her nails raking his bare back, he was soon rhythmically ramming his swollen manhood into her, slowly at first, then faster and harder as simple, blissful lust overtook them. He couldn’t remember another time in his life when he had felt so—carefree. 

After both of their hungers were satisfied, Jenkins—ever the gentleman—gave her his handkerchief to tidy herself up with. They quickly redressed and straightened their clothes and hair, and rejoined the party. They parted a few hours later, and he never saw her again. 

 

1986, New York

Jenkins was, of course, prudent enough to not reveal ALL of the gory details to Fielding in his telling, but he couldn’t help but remember them all as he spoke. He had woken up the next day with a splitting headache and a nauseous feeling that lasted for four days. He remembered the pretty French-Creole girl, and their tryst in the park, and he felt suddenly ashamed of himself, disgusted with himself. How could he have lost control of himself like that? But at the same time, he knew he would do the same thing again in the same situation. It had felt good to be held, caressed, desired, intimate. He still thought of Mucette occasionally, especially at Mardi Gras time, but he never tried to find her or contact her. It was a one-time thing, he knew that. It never even occurred to him that she might become pregnant.

Dan Fielding listened to the story without interruption. When Jenkins was finished, he sat quietly for a few moments as he stared sightlessly at his empty coffee cup.

“I hope I haven’t hurt you,” Jenkins offered apologetically. “I’m sorry if I have. I’m sorry if I hurt your mother at all, as well.”

Fielding snapped back to attention. “No, no! I’m not hurt. I’m….” he searched for the right words. “I’m grateful, actually. I’m grateful to know that it was consensual, that she wasn’t…taken advantage of. I’m grateful to know why I’ve always felt out of place in my own family.” He paused for a moment reflectively before continuing.

“And I want you to know that I don’t blame you or judge you in any way,” he said. He gave Jenkins a rueful look. “In fact, I’m something of an advocate of ‘free love’ myself. We seem to have a lot of traits in common.”

Jenkins remained silent, waiting for the young lawyer to take this at his own pace, dreading what was inevitably coming.

“Say—what do you do for a living now?” Fielding asked suddenly. The abrupt change of topic jarred the older man.

“I still work for a library,” he replied. “I’m sort of…an archivist.”

The answer seemed to please Fielding, a smile coming to his face as he considered the information. 

“A librarian. Huh. Is your name REALLY Galahad?”

“Yes, it is.”

The smile faded from Fielding’s face suddenly, and the anxious expression returned.

“Would it be ok it I contacted you once in a while?” he blurted. 

And there it was. Jenkins sighed quietly to himself. He liked this young man. He could see the loneliness in his eyes, the emptiness in his life of any lasting relationships, his hunger for closeness and intimacy with someone—anyone—which he could never quite manage to fill. The bravado he used as a front to cover it all up. The wall he had built up around himself to prevent getting hurt by unrelenting disappointment. Jenkins painfully recognized it all. _This apple has obviously not fallen far from the tree at all, _he thought sadly. Jenkins didn’t want to hurt him any further, but he knew they had no future.__

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“Oh, I don’t think that would be a very good….” he began gently, but Fielding cut him off.

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“OH, right, ok. Yeah, you’re right; it’s probably a bad idea.” He looked pointedly at his watch.

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“Wow, I have to get back! Session will be starting up again in a couple of minutes.” He laid some money on the table to cover their bill and stood up quickly.

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“I’m very sorry, Mr. Fielding.” Jenkins sincerely said as he stood also.

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“No, no, don’t be,” Fielding said, trying to sound indifferent as he started walking for the door, then stopped and turned back to Jenkins. He stuck out his hand to the older man.

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“I’m glad I met you,” he said. “I hope…Well…Good luck.” Jenkins took the proffered hand and shook it. He said nothing, but smiled, perhaps a bit too stiffly.

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Fielding hesitated, for a moment, then reached into his pocket for the handkerchief. “I guess this is yours.”

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“Keep it,” said Jenkins.

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Another moment of hesitation, and then Fielding pulled a business card from his breast pocket. 

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“Here, this is my card. If you ever change your mind…I’d be glad to hear from you. No pressure, though.”

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Jenkins took the card politely. “Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

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“Well, I gotta go. Court…” Fielding said again awkwardly. “Goodbye, Mr. Jenkins.”

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“Daniel,” Jenkins said intentionally, nodding.

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They parted at the door and each man went his separate way.

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December 5, 1986  
Library Annex, Portland, OR 

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Several months later Jenkins was settling himself into his new home in Oregon. When Judson had suggested that he move out here, Jenkins didn’t put up much of a fight. He had been spending more and more time out here in the last several decades anyway, why not make it official? He knew Judson was uncomfortable with Jenkins’s relationship with Charlene, and that that was the reason for the request, but he also was glad to get out of New York. Now that he knew about his son, he had felt like he was always looking over his shoulder for him whenever he was out of the Library. There were times when he felt himself regretting having pushed the young man away, but he always talked himself back into believing that it was the best thing for both of them in the end. How could he possibly explain to him that Jenkins’s name was ‘Galahad’ because he actually WAS Galahad, as in, the knight of the Round Table? How would he ever be able to explain to the man why, as the years passed, Fielding aged but Jenkins did not? Besides, he couldn’t watch yet another loved one grew old, grow weak and die. Especially his own flesh and blood. It would just be too much.

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The Caretaker opened one of the last boxes he had brought with him from New York. As he removed a book from the box, a small card fell from between its pages and fluttered to the floor. Picking it up, Jenkins realized that it was Dan Fielding’s business card. 

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He stared at the card for several moments, then started to toss it into the wastepaper basket next to his desk. He paused before he let it go, however, looked at it again. How many times had he come close to throwing the thing away, only to change his mind? Why didn’t he just get rid of it and be done with it? 

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He knew the answer; he didn’t WANT to be done with it. Despite his best logical arguments with himself, he did not want to cut this tie. Jenkins had had time to think about his own loneliness, the emptiness in his own life of any lasting relationships, his own hunger for closeness and intimacy with someone—anyone—which he could never quite manage to fill. The bravado he used as a front to cover it all up; the wall he had built up around himself to prevent getting hurt by unrelenting disappointment. 

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Deep down inside, Jenkins wanted to see his son, to talk to him, to be—if not a father—then at least a friend. He wanted that very badly. Dan Fielding was the only family he had in the entire world—at least, the only family that didn’t want to see him dead, anyway. He slipped the card into his vest pocket and finished unpacking.

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Several hours later Jenkins sat down at his desk, a freshly made cup of oolong tea in front him. He took the business card from his vest and looked at it again. He chided himself for his foolishness and once more reached for the wastepaper basket. Once more he stopped just short. He took a deep breath and reached for the old-fashioned candlestick telephone and pulled it towards him. He picked up the receiver and dialed the number on the card. He noticed that his fingers shook ever so slightly as he dialed.

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After a few seconds he heard the other end pick up.

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“Yeah, Dan Fielding,” the voice at the other end of the continent said carelessly. Jenkins stiffened, his heart pounding.

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“Hello? Is somebody there?” Fielding asked.

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Jenkins swallowed. “Mr. Fielding—Dan? This is Mr. Jenkins. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?”

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There was a moment of silence at the other end, and then his son’s voice, full of barely-concealed excitement. “Mr. Jenkins! Yes! No, no, I’m not doing anything right now, what can I do for you?”

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“I was wondering if...if we could talk some more?” There was short pause on the other end of the line.

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“I would love to,” the young man answered quietly, and Jenkins thought he heard a slight catch of emotion in Dan’s voice. 

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An unexpected feeling of relief flooded the old knight. 

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“I’m very happy to hear that,” he said sincerely. 

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Jenkins was glad that he hadn't listened to logic this time.

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**Author's Note:**

> Hmmmm. Even when I intend to write something light and funny, I end up with lots of angst; I must still have alot of unresolved issues that need to be processed--Sorry about that.


End file.
